which has aroused the largest amount of discussion. Its peculiarly
illogical deduction from a turbulent, passionate, soul-consuming
love like that of Tristan and Isolde has frequently called forth
unfavourable comment. Yet we are bound to admit that in his treatment
of this element of his work the master has been dramatically
ingenious. In summarising the story I have indicated his poetic
treatment of the cessation of the desire for life and the yearning
for death. That he has made it poetic is not to be denied, but it is
not consistent. If the lovers had sworn renunciation and had suffered
from the enforcement of their vow, there would have been consistency
in their desire to die. But in the midst of unbridled indulgence in
their passion they would have wished to live, unless there had been
surfeit and the subsequent moral reaction. But of this we have no
hint. The yearning for death, however, is an outcome of Wagner's
absorption of the philosophy of Arthur Schopenhauer. This writer was
a subjective realist and regarded extant phenomena as the products
of the will--that is, the world exists because man wishes to think
so. The highest ethical destiny of man is the nullification of the
will by the practice of an asceticism which shall remove from him all
desire for the objects of sense. These, then, being but creations
of the will, shall disappear, and the will, the only reality, shall
quietly renounce itself and vanish into the infinite. The doctrine is
closely allied to that of the Buddhist Nirvana. Wagner's endeavour
to reconcile it with the dramatic ideas of "Tristan und Isolde" was
not successful. Asceticism and adultery are not companions. But from
the Schopenhauerian pessimism he drew the long-continued harping
upon night and death, which is considerably more poetical than the
thoughts of the philosopher. In the second act the music of the duet
breathes all the pulsing and the languors of consuming passion, and
the score effectually masks the dramatic ineffectiveness of the
dialogue.
Otherwise the second act is a wonderful conception. In no other part
of Wagner's writings is his perfect command of his own union of
the arts tributary to the drama more beautifully demonstrated. The
picture, the action, the music, combine to create a poetic effect
upon the mind of the auditor. The dramatic instincts of Wagner led
him to centralise in one meeting of the lovers all the long-drawn
passion of the old legend. In the drama we have but one meeting,
which brings about the catastrophe. And whatever we may think of
the undramatic character of the Schopenhauerian pessimism, which,
as I have written elsewhere, is dragged into the story by the neck,
it affords ground for a poetic dialogue rich in mysticism and not
shocking in suggestion of mere fleshly desire. The dwarf Melot of the
legend becomes the faithless friend of Tristan in the drama. He is
merely a sketch, for his one action is but a piece of mechanism in
the movement of the story.
The substitution of a long harangue for a swift blow of the sword has
caused the proverbial finger of scorn to be pointed at King Mark,
who comes upon the stage in this act to discover his bride in the
arms of his knight. But he is certainly a vast improvement on the
Mark of the legend, who was constantly hesitating, who even saw the
guilty pair asleep in the forest, but refused to believe because the
naked sword lay between them. This Mark at least does not suspect
and confide in turns, send them away and then take them back. The
long speech explains certain points which are the best defence of
Mark's "sermonising," as it is often called. It tells us that he wed
a second time only because his court and his people demanded it, and
because Tristan himself declared that he would leave Cornwall unless
the King yielded. The fact that it was a political marriage, and that
the King was old and weary and not prone to emotional flashes, may
serve to explain why he talks instead of slaying Tristan on the spot.
At any rate Wagner's conception of the voluntary release of the
embrace of life by the guilty lovers is carried out, for when Mark
does not cut him down, Tristan throws himself upon Melot's sword.
Miss Weston, who makes much of the authority of the old legends and
of resemblances in the folk-lore or mythology of antiquity, regrets
that the death of Tristan in the third act is less touching than in
the legend, where, deceived by Isolde of the White Hand and believing
himself forsaken by his own Isolde, he silently turns his face to
the wall and breathes out his life with the name of the loved one on
his lips. And she furthermore repeats the criticism of Gaston Paris
that the final speech of Isolde contains more philosophy than poetry,
a weak criticism as one reading of the text will show. Mr. Krehbiel
more aptly notes that the elimination of the second Isolde removes
from the character of Tristan a stain which was placed upon it by his
loveless second marriage, and saves us the shock of seeing the wife
and the mistress in contest about his dying couch. Furthermore, the
musical treatment of the act is to my mind the most convincing piece
of dramatic writing in the literature of the lyric stage. I say this
without forgetting the wonders of the first and second acts. There
are certain similarities in the musical plans of the three acts. Each
begins with a passage intended to create an atmosphere: the first,
with the sailor's song floating down from aloft; the second, with the
music of the hunt dying away under the black arches of the forest;
and the third with the shepherd's pipe wailing the heart-wrecking
song of the empty sea. Nothing in the lyric drama excels the potency
of the combined scene, action, text, and music at the opening of the
second act except the astonishing effect of the preliminary measures
of the third.
And then follows a succession of those emotional waves, mounting in
foaming crests of tone and sinking in throbbing refluxes, which no
other composer ever wrote as Wagner did. Tristan's fevered mind,
yearning for the ship, waxes and wanes in crescendi and diminuendi
of passion till the suffering and sympathising spectator fancies
that his nature will endure no more. And then at the apex of one of
the awful upward flights of delirium comes that tremendous climax
made by the changing of the melody of the shepherd's pipe. The ship
is sighted. Now comes a period of vehement action, ending with the
frenzied man's tearing off the bandage, and sinking into Isolde's
arms to breathe out his life. Another burst of action follows this
crisis, and then the stillness of death itself prevails while the
musical finale of the work, the wonderful "Liebestod," falls upon the
audience "like the sound of a great Amen." There is nothing in the
old legend to suggest the astounding effects which Wagner has heaped
up in this last act. It is all the inspiration of a master genius
working without trammels in a field created by its own powers.
III.--The Musical Exposition
Let us turn now to a brief examination of the musical structure of
"Tristan und Isolde." It is not practicable to make this examination
exhaustive, nor would it be profitable. For those who desire to
detect each motive of the score as it passes them in the general
panorama of tone there are many handbooks. The present writer does
not believe that the dramatic influence of Wagner's music upon the
auditor is dependent on the latter's full acquaintance with the
terminology of the significant themes. That a certain intellectual
pleasure is added to the hearing of one of these dramas by a
recognition of the identity of the motives is not to be denied, and
that their dramatic purport should always be clear to the hearer's
mind is beyond dispute; but it should never be the purpose of an
auditor to concentrate his attention on the themes. Learn their
meaning from the text. Then let them alone, and they will do their
work.
In "Tristan und Isolde" we come upon the Wagnerian system worked out
to its end. Indeed, the composer went even further. In a letter to
Francis Villot in Paris in 1860, afterward published under the title
of "Music of the Future," the poet-composer said of "Tristan und
Isolde":
"Upon that work I consent to your making the severest
claims deducible from my theoretic premises; not because
I formed it on my system, for every theory was clean
forgotten by me; but since here I moved with fullest
freedom and the most utter disregard of every theoretic
scruple, to such an extent that during the working out I
myself was aware how far I had outstripped my system."
The composer sought in this drama to free himself from all the
restrictions of historical detail, and to centralise the music upon
the expression of the emotions of his personage, to make the play of
emotions, and not the succession of incidents, the real material of
the drama. This had always been his ideal of the lyric drama, but he
had not been certain of its practicability. In the letter just quoted
he says on this point:
"All doubt at last was taken from me when I gave myself
up to the 'Tristan.' Here, in perfect trustfulness, I
plunged into the inner depths of soul events, and from
out this inmost centre of the world I fearlessly built
up its outer form. A glance at the volumen of this poem
will show you at once that the exhaustive detail work,
which a historical poet is obliged to devote to clearing
up the outward bearings of his plot, to the detriment of
a lucid exposition of its inner motives, I now trusted
myself to apply to these latter alone. Life and death, the
whole import and existence of the outer world, here hang
on nothing but the inner movements of the soul. The whole
affecting action comes about for reason only that the
inmost soul demands it and steps to light with the very
shape foretokened in the inner shrine."
In beginning the work, he wrote the text without any thought of
operatic style. The reader will note that it is written in a freely
formed rhymed verse, the rhythms being few, but elastic, and of such
a nature that the poetry suggests the form of the melody without
hampering the composer. This result could have been achieved only
by the procreation of both verse and music by one mind. The organic
union of text and tone was conceived in Wagner's brain before pen
touched paper. In reference to this he says in the "Music of the
Future":
"Whereas the verses were there [in the Italian opera]
intended to be stretched to the length demanded by that
melody through countless repetitions of words and phrases,
in the musical setting of 'Tristan' not a trace of word
repetition is any longer found, but the weft of words and
verses foreordains the whole dimensions of the melody,
_i.e._, the structure of that melody is already erected by
the poet."
At a first glance this seems to be a contradiction of Wagner's theory
that the poem should not impose its form on the music. But we must
bear in mind that this poetry was prepared with the avoidance of
text domination in the poet's mind. Wagner wrote to Villot that he
found that his melody and its form were wholly freed from the old
shackles. He composed with the utmost liberty.
Before noting a few of the most significant phrases of this score,
which is a shimmering web of leading motives, let us take a glance
at the general plan. Here is a work constructed upon a model
diametrically opposed to the familiar one of Meyerbeer, the one
regnant in Europe at the date of "Tristan und Isolde's" production.
Meyerbeer built entirely for the succession of incidents, musical and
pictorial. The dramatic idea had to conform itself to this scheme.
Wagner built wholly on the ground of the thought and feelings of his
personages, and the action and the music had to place themselves as
explicators wholly at the service of these inner governors. Yet we
shall find that each act of the drama has a clear and symmetrical
musical shape, and that although this form is prescribed by the
emotional movement, it is none the less grounded upon the fundamental
laws of musical form.
Each of the three acts begins with a musical mood picture, in which
the elements of external description and inner feeling are skilfully
combined. The first act opens with the quaint, peaceful song of
the sailor, which suggests a calm sea and a pleasant voyage. The
second begins with the hunting music dying away in the forest, music
which establishes a nature mood, a mood of moonlight and rustling
leaves. The third is ushered in with the music of the empty sea,
a descriptive lament whose profound melancholy is not equalled in
any other score. Starting from each of these pictures, Wagner
develops an act. The sailor's song in Act I. is followed by a sudden
interruption of the peaceful mood. Isolde's passion begins to play.
It bursts into tumult. The curtain is thrown back, and to accompany
the motionless picture of Tristan at the helm, the sailor's song is
repeated. Again the music gradually rises in emotional force, till
another climax is reached, when Kurvenal trolls his ditty and the
insulted Isolde has the curtain closed. Another point of repose, and
again with Isolde's passion the music rises, but sinks to languorous
yearning as she tells of the glance that won her soul. The wave
mounts again as she curses Tristan and cries for vengeance. The
music sinks into impressive depths as Isolde proclaims her purpose
to administer the drink of death, and here Wagner relieves the
strain and makes a sharp contrast by introducing the cries of the
seamen outside. Then follow Kurvenal's boisterous entrance, and at
length the entrance of Tristan, which is heralded by an orchestral
passage voicing the heroism and the fate of the hero, a passage of
extraordinary power. The scene between Tristan and Isolde begins
reposefully and rises to a climax of passion at the taking of the
drink. Then comes a moment of expectancy, followed by an upheaval,
and then each utters the other's name in a phrase of deepest
yearning. The sailor's music again affords the necessary relief, and
the act comes to an end in a turmoil of tone.
The musical scheme of the second act is simpler because the emotions
are less complex. After the opening mood picture, Isolde has a brief
scene of contest with Brangäne, and at the extinction of the torch
the musical wave, which has been growing, curls and breaks. The next
one starts with Isolde's waving her scarf. Now we have a rapid,
agitated movement, depicting the wild haste of Tristan, the eagerness
of Isolde. The lover enters and this movement becomes tumultuous.
When its climax is reached the necessary point of repose is made as
Tristan leads Isolde to the seat. We have had an allegro agitato;
now follows an adagio appassionata, the love duet. Its long-drawn,
melting measures are broken once by the watch-cry of Brangäne--so
composed that it does not interrupt, but intensifies the mood--and at
last the rude interruption of Kurvenal. The contrast here is short
and sharp. The dramatic situation is enough. Then follows another
slow movement,--the coda of the adagio,--Mark's speech, Tristan's
answer, his appeal to Isolde, her answer. With the few crashing
measures of Melot and of Tristan's self-impalement, the musical
scheme is completed. Its form is perfect; its organic union with the
mood scheme of the act complete.
The musical plan of the third act has again more detail, because
the story is more incidental. With the melancholy music of the
empty sea as a starting-point, Wagner develops a long adagio, whose
wave-crests are the summits of Tristan's delirious outbursts. This
adagio ends when the shepherd's pipe proclaims the sighting of the
sail. Then enters the allegro agitato of the act, the wild rhapsody
of Tristan, the tearing off of the bandages, and the death of the
hero. With Isolde's mourning over the body we get a point of repose
and contrast. The shepherd announces a second ship. Descriptive music
of rapid movement follows, till the fight is interrupted by Mark's
entrance, and the final slow movement is begun. This movement comes
to its majestic climax with the "Liebestod," and with a few bars of
finale by the orchestra the work ends, like Tschaikowsky's sixth
symphony, with its adagio lamentoso.
The drama is prefaced by a prelude, in which some of the most
significant themes of the work appear. The thought underlying the
prelude is the insatiable desire of the lovers, ever rising higher
and higher in emotional waves till it sinks exhausted in its vain
endeavour to find its own satisfaction. Several themes are combined
in the musical structure of the Vorspiel, but the most important are
those of Love and the Glance of Tristan; the glance which, Isolde
tells Brangäne, stayed her hand when she had discovered that Tristan
was the slayer of Morold and had lifted the sword to slay him.
[Music: LOVE.]
[Music: THE GLANCE.]
These two marvellously expressive themes are heard frequently
throughout the drama. The sailor's song, with which the first act
begins, contains the melody of the sea music, heard several times in
the course of the act.
[Music: THE SEA.]
This theme belongs to what Mr. Krehbiel has well described as the
music of the scene, or scenic music. It deals with the externals of
the drama, not with its emotions. The next significant motive to
appear is that of Death, which is first heard when Isolde exclaims,
"Death-devoted head! Death-devoted heart!"
[Music: DEATH.]
Closely associated with this in meaning is the Fate motive, which is
first heard in the harmonic scheme of the prelude.
[Music: FATE.]
We have now before us nearly all the significant thematic material
of the first act. Most of the other melodic features are freely
composed and do not figure in the subsequent episodes. The
repetitions of the motives quoted will explain themselves to the
most casual observer. The re-entrances of the Death and Fate motives
are unmistakable in purport, while the reappearance of the Love
and Glance themes after the drinking of the potion brings back the
opening of the prelude with its story of desire insatiable, love
immeasurable.
The play upon the contrasting fancies of night and day, which forms
the figurative material of the lovers' dialogue in the second
act, suggests new thematic devices, and so the act opens with the
proclamation by the orchestra of the Day theme.
[Music: DAY.]
Derived from this is the beautiful motive of the Night, which appears
in Tristan's long speech dealing with the fanciful contrast of the
two. When he says, "Was dort in keuscher Nacht dunkel verschlossen
wacht?" ("What watches yonder darkly concealed in chaste Night?") the
theme sings softly in the orchestral accompaniment:
[Music: NIGHT.]
This luscious, languorous theme plays an important part throughout
the act. The hearer will note how beautifully it serves as the
introduction to the cantabile of the duo, "O sink' hernieder," and
how effectively the composer has made the day and night variations
of the one fundamental musical idea carry out the thought of the
dialogue. Another theme which appears in the introductory music of
the second act is that of the Triumph of Love:
[Music: TRIUMPH OF LOVE.]
From a development of this theme, by the simple musical device of
augmentation, Wagner constructs the climax of the duo, which becomes
again the climax of the last speech of Isolde over the dead body of
Tristan:
[Music]
Another significant motive heard in the opening measures of the act
is the Love Call, which is afterward employed frequently in the
action:
[Music: LOVE CALL.]
These are the principal and most significant new motives which appear
in the love music of this wonderful act. Of course, some of the
themes heard in the first act are employed here again, and nothing in
the entire score is more charged with meaning than the combination
of the motive of the Triumph of Love with the harmonies of that of
Death at the instant of Isolde's extinction of the torch. Such feats
of musical depiction the attentive listener will find on every page
of the score, yet the actual number of motives to which special
meanings have been attached is not large enough to tax the memory.
The appearance of King Mark in the action is noted by two motives,
one used to indicate his personality and the other his grief:
[Music: MARK.]
[Music: MARK'S GRIEF.]
The third act opens with music descriptive of bitter grief and
loneliness. The first phrase, that of grief, is a remarkable thematic
development of the second half of the Love motive:
[Music: GRIEF.]
The ensuing long ascending passage expresses loneliness most
eloquently. This is interrupted by a new motive, heard frequently in
this act, the motive of Anguish:
[Music: ANGUISH.]
The melody played by the shepherd's pipe has received various titles,
but it speaks its own language of melancholy. The music allotted to
Kurvenal in the opening scene of the act is similar in character to
that which he sings in Act I., and at one place is a repetition of
it. In the long speeches of Tristan we hear repeated with powerful
dramatic significance the motives of Day and Night, the Love theme,
the Death theme, the motive of Anguish, and snatches of the love duo
of Act II. The musical material of the entire act is now woven of
what has already been heard. The motives melt and flow in a stream
of marvellous melody, till at the end Isolde proclaims her hero's
greatness in the "Liebestod," which is a repetition, with some
developments, of Tristan's "So stürben wir um ungetrennt, ewig einig
ohne End'," and the motive of the Triumph of Love:
[Music:
So stürben wir um ungetrennt,
Ewig, einig ohne End'.
So die that we together blend,
Living, loving, without end.]
There are other motives in this stupendous score, but, as I have
already intimated, it would be idle for the music-lover to burden his
memory with them. Many of them are thematic developments of phrases
first heard in the germinal form, and it is in the overwhelming
eloquence of these developments that the power of the score is
largely to be found. With the themes already given the lover of
the true lyric drama should readily understand the purposes of the
composer. For the rest, the perfect organic union of text, tone, and
action in "Tristan und Isolde" makes it the most directly expressive
of all the later dramas. Only those who go to hear it with the
conception of an old-fashioned opera in their minds fail to receive
its message. "Tristan und Isolde" is a drama of human emotions
uttered in tones. As such it must be conceded a place among the
mightiest conceptions of the poetic brain.
DIE MEISTERSINGER VON NÜRNBERG
Opera in Three Acts.
First performed at the Royal Court Theatre, Munich, June 21, 1868.
_Original Cast._
Hans Sachs Betz.
Veit Pogner Bausewein.
Kunz Vogelgesang Heinrich.
Conrad Nachtigall Sigl.
Sixtus Beckmesser Hölzel
Fritz Kothner Fischer.
Balthazar Zorn Weixlstorfer.
Ulrich Eislinger Hoppe.
Augustin Moser Pöppl.
Hermann Ortel Thoms.
Hans Schwartz Graffer.
Hans Foltz Hayn.
Walther von Stolzing Nachbaur.
David Schlosser.
Eva Fräulein Mallinger.
Magdalene Frau Diez.
Ein Nachtwächter Lang.
Weimar, Mannheim, Carlsruhe, Dresden, Dessau, 1869; Berlin, Hanover,
Vienna, Leipsic, Stettin, Königsberg, 1870; Hamburg, Prague, Bremen,
1871; Riga, Copenhagen, 1872; Mayence, 1873; Cologne, Nuremberg,
Breslau, 1874; Brunswick, 1876; Strassburg, Augsburg, 1877; Gratz,
Düsseldorf, 1878; Wiesbaden, Rotterdam, Darmstadt, 1879; Schwerin,
1881; London, May 30, 1882.
First performed in America at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York,
Jan. 4, 1886.
_Cast._
Hans Sachs Emil Fischer.
Veit Pogner Joseph Staudigl.
Kunz Vogelgesang Herr Dworsky.
Conrad Nachtigall Emil Saenger.
Sixtus Beckmesser Otto Kemlitz.
Fritz Kothner Herr Lehmler.
Balthasar Zorn Herr Hoppe.
Ulrich Eislinger Herr Klaus.
Augustin Moser Herr Langer.
Hermann Ortel Herr Doerfler.
Hans Schwartz Herr Eissbeck.
Hans Foltz Herr Anlauf.
Walther von Stolzing Albert Stritt.
David Herr Krämer.
Eva Auguste Krauss (Mrs. Seidl).
Magdalena Marianne Brandt.
Nachtwächter Carl Kauffmann.
Conductor, Anton Seidl.
DIE MEISTERSINGER VON NÜRNBERG
"Tannhäuser" was finished in April, 1844, and in the summer of
that year, while at Marienbad, Wagner made the sketch of "Die
Meistersinger von Nürnberg." He designed this comic opera as
a pendant to the serious "Tannhäuser" (see Chapter VI. of the
biographical part of this work), and no doubt the historical
relations of the minnesingers, who figured in the tragedy, with the
meistersingers, who provided him with the characters for his comedy,
suggested the nature of the humorous opera and the general manner of
the treatment of the subject. The first drafts of the comedy were
made in the summer of 1844, but the poem was completed in Paris in
the winter of 1861-62. The music was begun in 1862, but, as we have
seen, was laid aside when the composer fled from his creditors, as
narrated in Chapter XI. of the biography. The work was resumed after
King Ludwig had become Wagner's protector, and the score was finished
on Oct. 21, 1867.
Something of the character of the German minnesinger we have seen in
our study of "Tannhäuser," where Wagner gives an idealised picture of
one of their courtly contests in poetry and song. These minnesingers
were the German companions and imitators of the French troubadours,
from whom they took their origin. Their epoch dates from the reign
of Conrad III., of the Hohenstauffen dynasty, who ascended the throne
in 1138. In 1148, when he undertook a crusade in company with Louis
VII. of France, the nobility of Germany were brought into habitual
acquaintance with the nobility of France, who at that time were
cultivating Provençal poetry and song in the "gay science" of the
Troubadour. The German emperors now began the pursuit of the customs
of chivalry. They and their nobles threw open their courts with a
brilliant hospitality which rivalled that of France. The splendour of
their tournaments, the glitter of their festivals, drew visitors in
throngs from far and near. With them came the poet and the singer,
and thus the German, who in the crusade had caught the infection of
the chanson of Provence, found his first rude attempts brought face
to face with the more polished productions of the visiting chanteurs
and jongleurs.
The minnelied was the outcome, and for more than a century this
form of courtly song was prized by the German people. While the
Hohenstauffen dynasty remained on the throne (1138-1272), the
literature of chivalry was patronised at court and the song of
the minstrel was heard throughout the land. These singers were
called minnesingers from the old German word "minne," which means
"love"--the topic most dear to the minstrel heart. With the death of
the first Frederick, the great Barbarossa, the star of the Swabian
dynasty set, and the sweet sounds of the Swabian lyre were soon
drowned in the turmoil of the internal disorders which beset Germany
in the period of the Great Interregnum. This was a time after the
death of the last Hohenstauffen, when various minor princes wore the
imperial title without exercising its functions or its authority.
The customs of chivalry naturally fell into disuse when there was
no central home for them, and the minnesinger became a memory. The
period of disturbance was ended with the accession to the throne
of Rudolf of Hapsburg. This monarch was engaged during much of his
reign in putting down the internal disorders, and his chief business
was the overthrow of the powerful and independent nobles. He was
furthermore largely occupied with quarrels with the Huns. The court
language was changed from West Gothic to East Gothic, which was less
national, and much of the southern culture which had characterised
the reign of the Swabian emperors inevitably disappeared. The customs
of chivalry sought shelter in the courts of minor princes, who were
unable to give prizes of sufficient value to attract the knightly
singers, engaged, as most of them were, in their final struggle for
power and privilege.
The field of poetry and song was left to competitors of lower
social standing. A versifying mania now began to pervade the lower
classes. Blacksmiths, weavers, shoemakers, doctors, and schoolmasters
sought to mend their fortunes by making verses. Poetry became dull,
mechanical, pedantic; poets, conceited, shallow, and arrogant. The
spirit of the age, filled with the instinct of preservation through
co-operation against attack from without, led these people to
form themselves into corporations, and Charles IV. (1346-78) gave
them a charter. They spoke of twelve minnesingers as their models
and masters,[37] and themselves they called mastersingers. They
held periodical meetings to criticise each other's productions.
Correctness was their chief aim, and they seem to have had little
real conception of poetry. Every fault was marked and he who made the
fewest was awarded the prize and permitted to take apprentices in the
meistersinger's art. At the expiration of his apprenticeship a young
man was admitted to the corporation and declared a "Meistersinger."
[Footnote 37: This explains the meaning of Kothner's question to
Walther in the first act, "What master taught you the art?" To this
Walther answers with the beautiful lyric, "Am stillen Herd," in which
he declares that Walther von der Vogelweide, one of the minnesingers
(see "Tannhäuser"), was his master.]
The first mastersinger of whom we know anything was Heinrich von
Meissen, called "Frauenlob" because of his fondness for singing the
praise of woman. He founded a guild of meistersingers at Mainz in
1311, and by the end of the fourteenth century most towns in Germany
had similar bodies. The school reached its highest development
in Nuremberg in the time of Hans Sachs (1494-1575). Sachs is an
historical character, and there is abundant opportunity for the study
of his style, as 6048 of his works are extant.[38] It was his period
which Wagner selected for treatment in his comedy.
[Footnote 38: Many of these works are now regarded as spurious, but
the majority of them are undoubtedly from the pen of the famous
cobbler-poet.]
The order of meistersingers, however, continued to practise its
calling long after this time. At Ulm the institution survived even
the changes which the French Revolution effected in Europe. As late
as 1830 twelve old mastersingers, after being driven from one refuge
to another, sang their ancient melodies from memory in a little
inn where the working men used to meet to drink their beer in the
evenings. In 1839 only four of the singers survived; and in that
year these remnants assembled with great solemnity and, declaring the
society of mastersingers disbanded forever, presented their songs,
hymn books, and pictures to a musical institution of Ulm. It is said
that the last of the four died in 1876.
The meisterlied--mastersong--created by these singers was a lineal
descendant of the minnelied, the song of the minnesinger. The
latter was constructed in strophes, and each strophe consisted of
three parts. The first and second parts were alike in metre and
melody, and were called "Stollen." The third part was in a different
metre and had its own melody, and it was called the "Abgesang,"
or aftersong. The minnesingers used three forms: the Lied (song),
the Lerch (lay), and the Spruch (proverb). The lay was composed of
differently constructed strophes, each with its own melody. The song
was in several strophes, all built and set alike. The proverb was in
a single strophe. The lied form was that adapted for their use by
the meistersingers. Their songs consisted of three "Bars" (staves).
Each staff was divided into three "Gesätze" (stanzas). The Gesatz was
constructed in three sections, the first two being alike in metre and
melody and called "Stollen." The third section differed in metre and
had its own melody and was called the "Abgesang," or "aftersong."
Thus we see that the "Bar" of the meisterlied corresponded to the
strophe of the minnelied. The subjects treated in their songs were
usually religious, though secular topics were not excluded. Sometimes
didactic or epigrammatic themes were chosen. The tunes were all
fixed, and the meistersinger's art was purely poetic. The tunes were
called tones and had curious names, such as the blue tone, the red
tone, the ape tone, the lily tone. In writing his comedy, Wagner,
aiming, as he did, to reproduce in a lifelike manner the customs of
the time, adhered to the rules of the meistersingers in the matter
of song, and, in selecting a theme to designate the guild, used the
melody of the "long tone" of Heinrich Müglin, a meistersinger of the
early period. For the construction of the song he lays down the law
in the address of Kothner to Walther, when the former reads the rules
from the "Leges Tabulaturæ." These laws prescribe the form which we
recognise as substantially that of the lied of the minnesinger.
Wagner drew his information as to the manners and customs of the
meistersingers from the principal source of all our knowledge of
them. This is a book entitled "De Sacri Rom. Imperii Libera Civitate
Noribergensi Commentatio," written by Johann Christoph Wagenseil,
Professor of Oriental Languages at the University of Altdorf, and
published in 1697. Not only did the poet-composer find his facts
there, but he took from the volume also the names of his characters,
for Veit Pogner, Fritz Kothner, Conrad Nachtigall, Balthasar Zorn,
Sixtus Beckmesser, and the rest of Wagner's meistersingers all walked
the earth in their day and sang their artificial ditties in imitation
of their masters, the minnesingers. Beckmesser, who appears as the
"low comedian" of Wagner's work, seems to have been a worthy, though
prosaic, person in his time. He was certainly not a butt of derision,
such as Wagner's character becomes through his own stupidity and
vanity.
The story of "Die Meistersinger" is, of course, Wagner's own. His
representation of the characters of the masters is his own. The real
Hans Sachs is, perhaps, not so well known as the real Wolfram von
Eschenbach, but it is probable that he was only a little better than
his fellow meistersingers. His works were more popular, and he was
doubtless a man of superior ability. But it is not likely that he
excelled the rest in refinement and artistic insight quite as much
as he appears to do in Wagner's comedy. The story tells us that
young Walther von Stolzing, a Franconian knight, has fallen in love,
almost at first sight, with Eva, the daughter of Veit Pogner, the
most substantial member of the guild, a man of some means. Pogner
has decided that his daughter shall wed a meistersinger, and that
she shall be the prize of the winner in the forthcoming contest of
song. Her own choice is to operate only in so far as to permit her
the liberty of rejecting the winner if she does not like him. But she
must, in the end, marry someone chosen by a contest and approved by
all the masters. Sachs endeavours to have the voice of the general
public added to that of the guild, but Pogner is unwilling to
introduce too many novelties into his experiment.
Walther meets Eva at the morning service of St. Catherine's Church,
in which the principal meetings of the masters were held. She
tells him that she must choose a master, and also that if he be
not a master, she will have no other. David, an apprentice to Hans
Sachs, arrives with other apprentices to prepare the church for an
examination in song, and explains very vaguely to the young knight
what he must do to become a master. Pogner and the other masters
assemble, and Pogner, declaring that the desire of a knight to become
a singer brings back the old times, explains the presence of Walther.
He presently announces to the masters for the first time his plan in
regard to his daughter's choice, a plan which gravely disconcerts
Beckmesser, an aspirant for her hand. Walther is now introduced as
a candidate for the degree of master. Kothner instructs him in the
rules and appoints Beckmesser marker. The marker was a critic whose
business it was to note every offence against the rules. Beckmesser
conceals himself in the marker's booth, and Walther, having announced
love as his theme, sings his song, which is entirely incorrect
according to the laws of the guild, but in which Hans Sachs at once
discovers the force of a new genius. In spite of his appeals the
youth is declared, according to the formula, "outsung," and the
meeting dissolves in confusion, Walther vainly endeavouring to make
himself heard, Sachs pleading for him, the other masters objecting,
Beckmesser scolding and pointing out more faults, and Pogner deeply
troubled lest his daughter's already engaged affections make it
impossible for him to carry out his plan.
The second act shows us the street, on one side of which is the
house of Pogner and on the other that of Hans Sachs. Pogner brings
his daughter home, still troubled in his mind and striving to fathom
hers. When he has gone into the house, Magdalena, Eva's companion,
tells her of Walther's failure, and she determines to ask Sachs for
advice. Presently the shoemaker seats himself at his work in the door
of his house. The balmy air of the evening, the scent of the elder
tree, turn his thoughts to the poetry which he heard at the trial.
What though it outraged the rules of the masters and even puzzled
him? Within it lay a real power. The singer sang, not to meet rules,
but because utterance was demanded by his feelings. Let the masters
rage; Hans Sachs is well pleased. This is the substance of the famous
monologue of the second act.
Eva comes from Pogner's house and in a most charming scene with Sachs
hints that as an avenue of escape from the possibility of marriage
with Beckmesser, who intends to compete for her hand, she would be
glad to become Sachs's wife. But he discourages this foolish idea.
Then she tries to learn the details of the defeat of Walther, and
Sachs, to test her feelings, pretends that he and all the other
masters were actuated by mere jealousy in voting against the youth.
Eva discloses her real feelings. Sachs leaves her, and the next
moment she is in the arms of her lover. They plan to elope. Sachs,
who has been listening and watching, throws open his window and lets
a flood of light into the street just as they are about to depart.
Then Beckmesser approaches for the purpose of serenading Eva. Sachs
now brings his bench out into the doorway, and begins to sing lustily
at his work. Eva and Walther hide, and Beckmesser inquires the reason
of Sachs's outbreak. The cobbler protests that he is trying to finish
the pair of shoes which Beckmesser had demanded of him that very day.
Magdalena, personating Eva, appears at the window, and Beckmesser
endeavours to sing his song to her. Sachs's singing and pounding
prevent him.
Then they come to an agreement. Sachs is to act as marker, and
correct each error with a blow of his hammer. He vows that the shoes
will be finished before the song is. Beckmesser sings and Sachs
strikes many blows. The shoes are finished first. Then Beckmesser
sings desperately and Sachs shouts lustily. The neighbours, aroused
by the outcry, begin to appear at their windows and presently in the
street. David, seeing Magdalena, his sweetheart, at the window, and
Beckmesser serenading her, attacks the singer with a cudgel. The
neighbours take sides, and a general mêlée ensues. Walther decides
to cut his way through the throng with Eva and escape, but Sachs
intercepts him, sends Eva into the arms of her father, and takes
Walther into his own house. At that moment the nightwatchman's horn
is heard. The crowd melts. The beaten Beckmesser limps painfully
away. The watchman passes up the empty street, startled at his own
shadow. The full moon rises over the distant roofs, and as the silent
street is flooded with its mild light, the orchestra breathes a
passage of perfect peace and beauty while the curtain falls. It is
one of Wagner's most potent dramatic and musical achievements.
The third act opens in the interior of Sachs's house. The
poet-shoemaker is in a reverie, and the prattling of his apprentice
cannot rouse him from it. When he is left alone, he breaks into the
second great monologue, "Wahn, Wahn." One must read the entire text
of this in order to understand it. At its conclusion Walther descends
from the chamber in which he has passed the night, and informs Sachs
that he has had a "wondrous lovely dream." Sachs bids him put it
into verse, and make a mastersong of it. Walther bitterly asks how
he can make a mastersong and one that's good. Sachs reproves him and
bids him observe law in his poetry. Walther begins the song which
he afterward sings for the prize. At the end of the first stanza
Sachs stops him and instructs him as to the nature of a "Stollen."
After the second "Stollen" he requires the young knight to make the
"Abgesang." Giving him several hints as to the construction of his
lay, Sachs writes it down, deeply moved by its beauty.
When Sachs and Walther have left the room, Beckmesser enters, and,
finding the newly written song, thinks it is by Sachs and that the
shoemaker means to enter the contest. When Sachs returns Beckmesser
charges him with this intention, and to his surprise Sachs gives him
the song, vowing that under no circumstances will he claim it as his
own. Beckmesser departs, almost beside himself with joy. Eva arrives
and declares that one of her shoes hurts. Sachs smiles incredulously,
but pretends to adjust the shoe. Walther, richly clad, appears and
stands spellbound at the sight of Eva. Sachs hints that now the
third stanza of the song might be produced, and Walther sings it.
Eva, deeply moved, throws herself into Sachs's arms, saying that
she has reached a new understanding of him and herself. David and
Magdalena enter, and Sachs announces that a mastersong has been made.
He promotes David from apprentice to journeyman that he may hear the
song, which an apprentice could not honour, and then he invites Eva
to speak. Here is introduced Wagner's one quintet in purely lyric
style, and it is conceded to be one of the loveliest conceptions of
this extraordinary work. The party starts for the field of contest,
and the scene changes to an open place on the banks of the river.
The various guilds of artisans assemble, and finally the
meistersingers enter in formal procession. Sachs, who is hailed by
the people in glad chorus, announces the terms of the contest and
Beckmesser is summoned to the singer's stand. Trembling in every limb
he makes a futile attempt to sing Walther's song, at which he looks
vainly at every opportunity. He makes a farce of it, and is laughed
to scorn by the people. In a rage he rushes away, pausing only to
declare that the song is by Sachs, and not himself. Sachs, however,
says that the song is not his and that it is a good song if correctly
sung. He calls for some one who can sing it, and Walther appears.
The masters, though they divine Sachs's plan, allow the young knight
to sing, and the entire assembly, seconded by the conquered masters,
declares that he has won the prize. Eva places the crown of laurel
on his head, and with him kneels before the well-pleased Pogner.
But when he would hang around Walther's neck the insignia of a
mastersinger the youth refuses it. Sachs again intervenes and reads
the young knight a little lecture on the importance of honouring
what is established in art. Walther yields; Eva places the laurel
on Sachs's brow, and the curtain falls as the people acclaim him in
joyful chorus.
In a letter to Dr. Franz Brendel, dated Aug. 10, 1862, Liszt quoted
a part of a letter from his daughter, Cosima, then the wife of Von
Bülow. She said:
"These 'Meistersinger' are, to Wagner's other conceptions,
much the same as the 'Winter's Tale' is to Shakespeare's
other works. Its phantasy is found in gaiety and drollery,
and it has called up the Nuremberg of the Middle Ages, with
its guilds, its poet-artisans, its pedants, its cavaliers,
to draw forth the most fresh laughter in the midst of
the highest, most ideal poetry. Exclusive of its sense
and the destination of the work, one might compare the
artistic work of it with that of the Sacraments-Häuschen
of St. Lawrence (at Nuremberg). Equally with the sculptor
has the composer lighted upon the most graceful, most
fantastic, most pure form--boldness in perfection; and as
at the bottom of the Sacraments-Häuschen there is Adam
Kraft, holding it up with a grave and collected air, so in
the 'Meistersinger' there is Hans Sachs, calm, profound,
serene, who sustains and directs the action."
This charming critical view of the work from the woman who was
afterward to be the sharer of Wagner's joys and labours is so apt
that, although this is not a book of criticism, but rather of
exposition, I give it place with pleasure. As a picture of the
pseudo-artistic life and influence of the mastersingers the work, as
genuine and great a comic opera as "Le Nozze di Figaro," is perfect.
Louis Ehlert, in one of his pregnant essays, has disclosed a belief
that Wagner was not a natural humourist, and that the fun of "Die
Meistersinger" is laboured. This is a somewhat severe judgment,
founded chiefly upon observation of the character of Beckmesser. The
unfortunate Marker is, indeed, a somewhat artificial figure, but much
depends upon his impersonator. He may be made a burlesque by very
slight overaccentuation of his peculiarities, and the temptation to
gain the applause and laughter of the unthinking is too strong for
any but a great artist. The true humour of "Die Meistersinger" lies
in its presentation of the shallow, pedantic, poetic art of the time,
the futile methods of the tribunal, the homely bourgeois life, the
quaint pageantry of the guilds, and the pretty plot by which Sachs
overthrows the vainglorious pretender to the hand of Eva, and smooths
the path of true love.
Behind this delightful comedy there lies a symbolism which should
not be overlooked. The masters represent the tyranny of formalism in
art, the dominance of that opinion which mistakes form for substance,
and attributes to the outward shape of every work the credit for
its merit. Walther von Stolzing, in his efforts as poet and singer,
is the embodiment of the free impulse, the desire for untrammelled
expression. Sachs, without the creative power of the young knight,
is the truer artist. He represents the influence of enlightened and
sympathetic intelligence. He discerns at once the innate power of
the new poesy which Walther brings into the dusty circle of masters,
but at the same time he perceives its need of discipline. It is
he, therefore, who induces the new genius to submit itself to the
sovereignty of the fundamental laws of form--a vastly different thing
from practising mere formalism.
Students of Wagner's works have often been invited to accept Walther
as a representative of Wagner himself. This is not justified by
anything in the work or in the other writings of its creator.
Nevertheless we have ground, and the support of Wagner, for the
assumption that he really designed Walther to represent the spirit
of progress in music, while the masters embodied that of pure
pedantry. Those two powers have always been at war in the world
of art and always will. Theoreticians and critics publish rules,
which they deduce from the practice of the great artists. The next
original genius who arrives has something new to say and says it in
a new way. He throws overboard some of the old formulas and invents
new ones, as Wagner did, and the theoretical and critical world
bursts into an outcry of indignation at the disturbance of settled
principles. After a time the two forces become reconciled, and the
new rules find their way into the theoretical treatises, while the
critics descant upon the additional flexibility imparted by them
to art. Wagner, in "Die Meistersinger," has shown us the spirit of
progress in its jubilant youth, scoffing at the established rules of
which it is ignorant. One of the finest lessons of the symbolism of
the comedy is that a musician, or any other artist, must master what
has already been learned of his art before he can advance beyond it.
The musical plan of "Die Meistersinger" embraces such a wealth of
detail that a complete exposition of it would consist of a full
analysis of the score. There are many leading motives, and these are
repeated or developed with all of the wonderful skill which was at
Wagner's command when he undertook this work. While impracticable
to give an exhaustive analysis of the score, it is not too much to
invite the reader to observe the general musical development of the
drama. The prelude contains several of the most important thematic
ideas, and these we may first consider. The Vorspiel begins with the
Meistersinger motive:
[Music: THE MEISTERSINGERS.]
A few measures further on appears the Meistersingers' march:
[Music: THE MASTERS' MARCH.]
These two themes, with their solidity, breadth, dignity, and
formality, serve admirably to present all the best musical elements
of an art which embodied the glorification of rule and the potency
of tradition. The second theme has a special interest for us because
Wagner built it on the beginning of a genuine Meistersinger tune (the
"long tone" of Heinrich Müglin). This tune begins thus:
[Music]
Throughout the drama these Meistersinger themes are employed by
Wagner to typify the art represented by his masters, and, as Mr.
Krehbiel has very pertinently pointed out, their majesty and musical
beauty are satisfactory evidence that the composer did not wish us to
undervalue the artistic movement of which they are typical. Opposed
to these themes we hear in the Vorspiel others associated with the
uprising of emotion, of passion in the young lovers of the play.
These themes, irregular in rhythm, restless in general style, breathe
the leaping aspirations of the romantic personages, and thus embody
the romantic principles which are constantly urging progress in art.
The first of these is a theme designed to express Walther's artistic
emotion and its search for expression:
[Music: WALTHER'S EMOTION.]
The second embodies the young knight's love and its longing, and thus
becomes the property also of Eva:
[Music: YEARNING OF LOVE.]
Two other themes must here be noted, that of the closing passage of
the prize song, and that of Spring. The latter is employed especially
to designate spring as a period of emotional blossoming rather than a
mere season. It is the springtime of Walther's life and passion and
song:
[Music: PRIZE SONG.]
[Music: SPRING.]
To these themes must be added that of Derision, heard in the last
act, when the people are amazed at the appearance of Beckmesser as a
contestant:
[Music: DERISION.]
Out of this material the prelude is built, and its character is that
of a contest of forces with a final reconciliation, which is, as we
have seen, the basis of the artistic symbolism of the comedy.
The first act begins with a chorale, in which the old-fashioned
style of writing is exhibited. As the congregation disperses, Eva
and Walther enter into eager converse, and the themes of Emotion
and Spring are heard. And here I must ask the reader to note the
wonderful use Wagner has made of this sequence of tones:
[Music]
By a very simple change the first three tones are altered to those
of the Spring motive or the closing strain of the prize song. It is
by such logical musical processes that Wagner makes the development
of his dramas so artistic and so convincing, while at the same time
he fascinates the ear by the purely sensuous beauty of the varying
melodies. The Spring theme plays a most important part in the score,
and it is worthy of note that it is so pregnant with meanings that
whether played fast or very slowly it is eloquent, though with a
difference. Note, if you will, the extraordinary force with which it
sings from the orchestra when Sachs's mind, in the second act, is
ruminating on the events of the trial and cannot free itself of the
influence of Walther's song. But to proceed with the first act: After
the scene of the lovers, with the entrance of David, we begin to hear
lively, rhythmic melodies, associated with the youth and gaiety of
the apprentices. A portion of this music signifies the chastisement
afflicted upon an apprentice by a master, and appears several times
in the score to call attention to Sachs's repression of David:
[Music: CHASTISEMENT.]
When David tells Walther of the art of a mastersinger we hear the
lovely theme of the Art of Song, plainly enough a variant of the
melodic basis of the prize song:
[Music: THE ART OF SONG.]
All of the music of David's scene with Walther is light and airy, but
with the entrance of the masters we hear serious ideas again, the
first of them being the motive of the Council:
[Music: THE COUNCIL.]
The second, a very tender and gracious theme, is that of St. John's
Day, the day of the contest for Eva's hand, and it is developed with
wonderful eloquence in the address of Pogner:
[Music: ST. JOHN'S DAY.]
When Walther appears, we hear for the first time the theme of his
knighthood:
[Music: WALTHER, THE KNIGHT.]
This is heard frequently in the score, and when Beckmesser, acting
as Marker, shows the slate covered with notes of errors in Walther's
song, this theme is heard distorted and caricatured. In answer to
Kothner's inquiry as to who was his master, Walther sings the lyric
"Am stillen Herd," and its second phrase (marked _a_) reveals its
foundation on the Spring theme:
[Music: "AM STILLEN HERD."]
The subsequent trial song, as will be noted at a single hearing,
throbs throughout with the Spring theme. Note the fine contrast made
by Kothner's formal statement of the laws of the mastersong, ending
with a fine vocal exfoliation in the old style:
[Music]
The act comes to an end with a general discussion among the masters,
while Walther vainly endeavours to make himself heard and the
apprentices sing a chorus of derision. As Sachs remains in the
foreground, moved by the new music which he has heard, we hear once
more its fundamental phrase, the Spring motive.
The music of the second act is simplicity itself up to the dialogue
of Pogner and Eva. The score is rich with themes already made known,
but when the father tells his daughter how she must on the morrow
make her choice before all the citizens, we hear for the first time a
peculiarly lovely motive intended to designate the old city itself:
[Music: NUREMBERG.]
Familiar motives, employed to make a mood-picture of great beauty,
illustrate the scene between Sachs and Eva. But here, indeed, we
must pause to note the wonderful expressiveness of the monologue of
Sachs, preceding his scene with Eva. The orchestral part throbs with
the Spring motive, which finally swells into a broad and beautiful
cantilena. The lyric of the first act is quoted by the orchestra
also, and at length Sachs concludes with a bit of new melody of his
own. He, too, is filled with the spirit of the new music:
[Music:
SACHS--
The bird who sang to-day,
has got a throat that rightly waxes;
Masters may feel dismay,
but well content with him Hans Sachs is!]
A prominent part is played in the ensuing scene by the tender Eva
motive:
[Music: EVA.]
Walther's entrance brings back the Knight theme, and others which
have been heard before. The music of the summer night, heard when the
watchman is approaching, is very beautiful, and its return at the
close of the act, punctuated by phrases of Beckmesser's serenade,
is still more lovely. A fine contrast is that between Sachs's
uproarious song, which is thoroughly good in the old style, and that
of Beckmesser, which is bad. The development of the turmoil in the
street is worked out with immense contrapuntal skill, and we hear
in the midst of it a new theme, that of the Beating, made skilfully
out of the fourths used in the lute accompaniment to the Marker's
serenade:
[Music: THE BEATING.]
The gradual building up of the turmoil at the end of the act, when
the excited people pour into the streets and the general fighting
begins, is wonderfully worked out in the score, in which the Beating
motive plays a prominent and humorously expressive part. In the midst
of the rumpus, the horn of the returning watchman is heard, its
discord making a fine musical effect. After the crowd has dispersed
and the watchman has repeated his droning formula, the music of the
summer night, as I have already mentioned, steals back in an ethereal
whisper, and the act comes to a close with one of those beautiful
points of repose which Wagner knew so well how to make after a
movement of extreme agitation.
The third act is preceded by an introduction of wonderful beauty and
expressiveness. With the chorale of the last scene, the shoemaker
song sung by Sachs in the second act, and the "Wahn" motive, the
composer paints for us the very soul of the poet-cobbler. The "Wahn"
motive is that on which is founded the great monologue of this act,
beginning with the words "Wahn, Wahn, überall Wahn"--"Madness,
madness, everywhere madness."
[Music: "WAHN, WAHN."]
The whole scene between Sachs and Walther is surcharged with melody
of the most luscious kind, and we hear the beginning of Walther's
mastersong, the song which finally wins for him the prize:
[Music: THE MASTERSONG.]
The music accompanying the entrance of the sore and limping
Beckmesser is filled with exquisite humour, and perhaps in it all
there is nothing more subtle than the use of the "Wahn" motive when
the Marker, after his agitated rush about the room, sits on the bench
and vainly strives to think of a new song.
The music of the scene following Eva's entrance is built on familiar
motives, whose significance here is easily traced, and the quintette,
as will be noted at the first hearing, is made from the prize song.
The recitation of Sachs preceding the quintette is one of the most
beautiful passages in the opera, but it is unnecessary to think
of it as built of motives. The last scene opens with much freely
composed music, the entrance of the guilds and the dance. With the
advent of the masters we return to the dignified music associated
with them. The rest of the scene is simple. The people sing the
beautiful chorale, "Wach' auf," Beckmesser makes his foolish attempt
to sing Walther's words to the tune of his own serenade, and then
Walther sings the song as it ought to be sung, slightly altering the
"Abgesang" in his fresh inspiration.
The principal characteristic of the music of "Die Meistersinger" is
its lyric quality. There are no tragic passions to be depicted, no
evil thoughts to be expressed. Beckmesser alone has malice, and
that is of a petty, foolish sort, best treated, as it is in this
exquisite work, with ridicule. The other personages are all lovable;
the motives all kindly. The underlying elements which are in contest,
the opposing principles, whose workings make the ethical basis of
the drama, are artistic, the old against the new, the formal against
the free. The expression of each must of necessity be lyric, the one
in well-regulated rhythms, the other in rushing bursts of apparently
spontaneous melody. But the total result is one great spring ode,
throbbing with the very heart-beats of young poesy and song, and sure
at all times and in all places to captivate those who have ears to
hear and souls to understand.
DER RING DES NIBELUNGEN
A Stage Festival Play
for
Three Days and One Preliminary Evening.
First performed in its entirety at Bayreuth, August, 1876; Munich,
1878; Vienna, Leipsic, 1879; Hamburg, 1880; Berlin, 1881; London,
Königsberg, Hanover, Danzig, Breslau, Bremen, Barmen, 1882; New York,
Metropolitan Opera House, March 4, 5, 8 and 11, 1889.
DAS RHEINGOLD
Prologue to "Der Ring des Nibelungen."
First performed at the Royal Court Theatre, Munich, September 22,
1869.
_Original Cast._
Wotan Kindermann.
Donner Heinrich.
Froh Nachbaur.
Loge Vogl.
Alberich Fischer.
Mime Schlosser.
Fasolt Polzer.
Fafner Bausewein.
Fricka Fräulein Stehle.
Freia Fräulein Müller.
Erda Fräulein Seehofer.
Woglinde
Wellgunde Frau Vogel.
Flosshilde Fräulein Ritter.
This performance was against the wish of Wagner. The first authorised
performance was that at the Festspielhaus, Bayreuth, August 13, 1876,
when the cast was as follows:
Wotan Franz Betz.
Donner Eugen Gura.
Froh Georg Unger.
Loge Heinrich Vogel.
Alberich Carl Hill.
Mime Carl Schlosser.
Fasolt Albert Eilers.
Fafner Franz von Reichenberg.
Fricka Friedericke Grün.
Freia Marie Haupt.
Erda Luise Jäide.
Woglinde Lilli Lehmann.
Wellgunde Marie Lehmann.
Flosshilde Marie Lammert.
Weimar, Vienna, Leipsic, Hamburg, Brunswick, 1878; Mannheim, Cologne,
1879; Frankfort, London, 1882.
First performed in America at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York,
Jan. 4, 1889.
_Cast._
Wotan Emil Fischer.
Donner Alois Grienauer.
Froh Albert Mittelhauser.
Loge Max Alvary.
Alberich Joseph Beck.
Mime Wilhelm Sedlmayer.
Fasolt Ludwig Mödlinger.
Fafner Eugen Weiss.
Fricka Fanny Moran-Olden.
Freia Katti Bettaque.
Erda Hedwig Reil.
Woglinde Sophie Traubmann.
Wellgunde Felice Koschoska.
Flosshilde Hedwig Reil.
Conductor, Anton Seidl.
DIE WALKÜRE
Music Drama in Three Acts.
First evening of the trilogy, "Der Ring des Nibelungen."
First performed at the Royal Court Theatre in Munich, contrary to the
author's wish, on Aug. 26, 1870.
_Original Cast._
Siegmund Vogl.
Hunding Bausewein.
Wotan Kindermann.
Sieglinde Frau Vogl.
Brünnhilde Fräulein Stehle.
Fricka Fräulein Kaufmann.
First authorised performance in the Festspielhaus at Bayreuth, Aug.
14, 1876.
_Original Bayreuth Cast._
Siegmund Albert Niemann.
Hunding Joseph Niering.
Wotan Franz Betz.
Sieglinde Josephine Scheffsky.
Fricka Friedericke Grün.
Brünnhilde Amalia Friedrich-Materna.
Gerhilde Marie Haupt.
Ortlinde Marie Lehmann.
Waltraute Luise Jäide.
Schwertleite Johanna Jachmann-Wagner.
Helmwige Lilli Lehmann.
Siegrune Antoinie Amann.
Grimgerde Hedwig Reicher-Kindermann.
Rossweisse Minna Lammert.
Vienna, New York, 1877; Rotterdam, Leipsic, Hamburg, Schwerin, 1878;
Weimar, Mannheim, Cologne, Brunswick, 1879; Königsberg, Frankfort,
1882.
First performed in America at the Academy of Music, New York, April
2, 1877.
_Cast._
Siegmund Mr. Bischoff.
Hunding Mr. Blum.
Wotan Mr. Preusser.
Sieglinde Mlle. Canissa.
Fricka Mme. Listner.
Brünnhilde Mme. Pappenheim.
Conductor, Adolf Neuendorff.
SIEGFRIED
Music Drama in Three Acts.
Second evening of the trilogy, "Der Ring des Nibelungen."
First performed at the Festspielhaus, Bayreuth, August 16, 1876.
_Original Cast._
The Wanderer Franz Betz.
Siegfried George Unger.
Alberich Carl Hill.
Mime Carl Schlosser.
Fafner Franz von Reichenberg.
Brünnhilde Amalia Friedrich-Materna.
Erda Luise Jäide.
Forest Bird Lilli Lehmann.
Hamburg, Vienna, Munich, Leipsic, 1878; Schwerin, Brunswick, 1879;
Cologne, 1880.
First performed in America at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York,
Nov. 9, 1887.
_Cast._
Wanderer Emil Fischer.
Siegfried Max Alvary.
Alberich Rudolph von Milde.
Mime Herr Ferency.
Fafner Johannes Elmblad.
Brünnhilde Lilli Lehmann.
Erda Marianne Brandt.
Forest Bird Auguste Seidl-Kraus.
Conductor, Anton Seidl.
GÖTTERDÄMMERUNG
Music Drama in Three Acts.
Third evening of the trilogy, "Der Ring des Nibelungen."
First performed at the Festspielhaus in Bayreuth, August 17, 1876.
_Original Cast._
Siegfried George Unger.
Gunther Eugen Gura.
Hagen Gustav Siehr.
Alberich Carl Hill.
Brünnhilde Amalia Friedrich-Materna.
Gutrune Mathilde Weckerlin.
Waltraute Luise Jäide.
{ Johanna Jachmann-Wagner.
The Three Norns { Josephine Scheffsky.
{ Friedericke Grün.
{ Lilli Lehmann.
The Rheindaughters { Marie Lehmann.
{ Minna Lammer.
Munich, Leipsic, 1878; Vienna, Hamburg, Brunswick, 1879; Cologne,
1882.
First performed in America at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York,
Jan. 25, 1888.
_Cast._
Siegfried Albert Niemann.
Gunther Adolf Robinson.
Hagen Emil Fischer.
Alberich Rudolph von Milde.
Brünnhilde Lilli Lehmann.
Gutrune Auguste Seidl-Kraus.
Woglinde Sophie Traubmann.
Wellgunde Marianne Brandt.
Flosshilde Louise Meisslinger.
Conductor, Anton Seidl.
(The Waltraute and Norn scenes were omitted. They were first given at
the Metropolitan on January 24, 1899, when Mme. Schumann-Heink was
the Waltraute, and also one of the Norns. The others were Olga Pevny
and Louise Meisslinger. "Der Ring des Nibelungen" was first performed
without cuts at the Metropolitan on January 12, 17, 19, and 24,
1899.)
DER RING DES NIBELUNGEN
I.--The Sources of the Poems
The gigantic tetralogy of Wagner must be studied as a single opus,
for such indeed it is. A poem in four cantos, a dramatic sequence
after the manner of the Greeks, it is the story of a single action,
a single crime and its tragic atonement. What that story is we
shall presently see. How Wagner conceived and created his new and
wonderful version of the Norse mythology, the Volsunga Saga, and the
"Nibelungen Lied," is what must first occupy our attention. Wagner's
first mention of this work is found in a letter to Liszt, written in
June, 1849, when he announces his intention of setting to music his
"latest German drama, the 'Death of Siegfried.'" This drama embodied
that part of the story now told in "Götterdämmerung," and in the
composition of it Wagner found that the necessary explanations of
the incidents leading up to the story quickly became too long and
complex. He decided that he must write a prefatory drama on the story
of the young Siegfried, and in doing this he found himself involved
again in explanatory difficulties. Thus he finally decided to make a
trilogy with a prologue. In a long letter of Nov. 20, 1851, to Liszt
he explains how the completed form of "Der Ring" came into existence.
The books of "Das Rheingold" and "Die Walküre" were finished in the
first week of November, 1852. He then set about reconstructing the
other two, already written, but now in need of extensive alterations.
The story of the completion of the poem in its new form and the
beginning of the music has already been told in the biographical
part of this work. It is necessary only to recapitulate here that
the text was finished in 1853. The music of "Rheingold" was begun
in the autumn of 1853 at Spezzia, and finished in January, 1854. He
wrote to Liszt on Jan. 14: "I went to this music with so much faith,
so much joy; and with a true fury of despair I continued, and have
at last finished it." The music of "Die Walküre" was begun in June,
1854, and finished late in the same year. The instrumentation was
commenced with the opening of the following year. Then came the visit
to London, where the score of the first act was completed in April.
The score of the first two acts was sent to Liszt on Oct. 3. Wagner
having been delayed in the work by many distractions and by mental
depression, it was not till the ensuing year that the score was
wholly written.
The music of "Siegfried" was begun in 1857, and the first act was
finished in April of that year. The second act was begun, and then
came the interruption caused by Wagner's eagerness to return to
active touch with the stage, his pressing need of money, and his
fear that he would not live to complete his gigantic undertaking.
This second act, therefore, was not completed till June 21, 1865, at
Munich, "Tristan und Isolde" having been written in the meantime. The
third act was finished early in 1869. The music of "Götterdämmerung"
was begun at Lucerne in 1870, and completed at Bayreuth in November,
1874. The point at which the work on this tetralogy was suspended
for that on "Tristan und Isolde" is designated in a letter to Liszt,
dated May 8, 1857. Wagner says: "I have led my young Siegfried to a
beautiful forest solitude, and there have left him under a linden
tree, and taken leave of him with heartfelt tears. He will be better
off there than elsewhere."
Just how Wagner came to take up the subject of Siegfried's death is
not known. A recent German writer in one of the Munich newspapers
has asserted that the suggestion came from Minna, his first wife.
This assertion is in line with the belief of many that Minna was
more sinned against than sinning, and that Wagner's complaints of
her inability to understand him were intended to divert suspicion
from the real causes of the troubles between them. It seems hardly
likely, however, that a woman of Minna's simple character would have
conceived the availability of the Siegfried legend for Wagner's
ideal music drama. The fact that Siegfried had for centuries been
the popular mythical hero of the German people and that his deeds
and personality had constituted most of the materials of one of the
great mediæval German epics, the "Nibelungen Lied," seems sufficient
to have attracted the attention of the master to the subject. He
himself says in his "Communication" that even while he was at work
on "Lohengrin" he was debating which of two subjects, "Friedrich
Barbarossa" or "Siegfried," he should take up next. He adds:
"Once again and for the last time did myth and history stand before
me with opposing claims; this while as good as forcing me to decide
whether it was a musical drama or a spoken play that I had to write."
It was with the decision to utilise only mythical subjects for his
serious dramas that he concluded to lay aside "Barbarossa" and work
upon "The Death of Siegfried." This poem in its original form is
included in the collected writings of Wagner, and is interesting as
being the first attempt of Wagner to embody the legendary tragedy
in a drama. A reading of it will show clearly why he was obliged to
write three other dramas to lead up to this one and make its meaning
comprehensible. In working out the plan as a whole he selected and
utilised with his customary skill the salient points of the Norse and
German forms of the story, and he found more suitable material in the
sagas than in the German epic. And out of the Northern mythology, so
beautifully stored in the sagas, he evolved those ethical features
which raise "Der Ring des Nibelungen" to a position beside the great
Greek tragedies of antiquity.
We must study these dramas chiefly by tracing their sources and
showing how Wagner utilised his materials. He himself wrote an
article entitled "The Nibelungen Myth as Material for a Drama,"
and in it may be found the germinal form of the entire story as it
first took cognisable existence in his mind. In its completed shape,
however, it differs from this embryonic outline in many particulars.
First, then, the age of the legends upon which these dramas are
founded is not so great as might appear from their mythological
nature, and that will explain some of their curiosities. We are
prone, when watching the actions of Wagner's gods, to think that
these stories date from the antique age of fable, but the truth is
that they came into existence in the modern age of fable, the early
centuries of the Christian era. Furthermore, although Wagner has used
chiefly the Norse forms of the materials, the great Siegfried legend
was originally the production of the German people. The Scandinavian
bards obtained some of their ideas from Germany, and thus came about
the strange mingling of Norse mythology and Teutonic fable.
When the dominion of Rome in the west of Europe was overthrown in
476 A.D., the Teutonic race occupied the country from the
banks of the Rhine and the Danube to the coasts of Norway. The
invaders who settled in the southern provinces of Europe soon lost
their distinctive speech. But in Germany and Scandinavia the old
tongues remained, and consequently poetic recitation, the custom of
long centuries, continued. Tacitus tells us that the people of these
northern lands were accustomed to store their history in rhyming
chronicles repeated by the bards. It was not till the reign of the
wise and heroic Charlemagne (742-814) that these chronicles were
collected. Nothing remains of the collection which he made, but
it can hardly be doubted that some of the materials found in the
Siegfried legend formed part of the old stories of the bards, for it
has been traced back as far as the sixth century, when its germs were
recognisable. In the first preserved form of the story of this hero's
exploits we find recorded the fabulous history of times not widely
separated from those of the conquest of Rome's western empire, for
in the sixth century appeared in tradition the names not only of
Siegfried and Dietrich von Bern, but Theodoric the Great and Attila.
This first preserved form of the legend is called the "Heldenbuch"
("Book of Heroes"). In its present shape it dates from the latter
part of the twelfth century, but there is evidence that it was in
existence long before that period. It is a collection of poems
dealing with the events of the time of Attila and the incursions of
the German nations into Rome. The principal personages who appear in
this book are: Etzel, or Attila; Dietrich, or Theodoric the Great;
Siegfried, Gudrune, Hagen, and others who reappear in the "Nibelungen
Lied." The period of the events which occur in the Wagnerian dramas
may be estimated by the formation of a succession of incidents
leading back to Attila, an historical personage with an established
date. In "The Horny Siegfried," one of the poems of the "Heldenbuch,"
we find matter which serves as a prelude to the "Nibelungen Lied."
In this poem Siegfried appears as the embodiment of manly heroism,
beauty, and virtue, as he was known to Teutonic song and story
for centuries. From having bathed in the blood of dragons he was
invulnerable except in one spot, between the shoulders, on which a
leaf had happened to fall. Having rescued the beautiful Chriemhild
from dragons (or a giant) and obtained possession of the treasures
of the dwarfs, he returns her to her father, King of Wurms, and then
marries her.
The "Nibelungen Lied" identifies Chriemhild as the sister of Gunther,
the Gutrune of Wagner's version. Chriemhild, in order to obtain
revenge for the treachery of Siegfried and Brünnhilde, which I shall
recount in the outline of the "Nibelungen Lied," after the death of
the former marries Attila. It was twenty-six years after the death
of Siegfried when she carried out her plan of revenge. How long this
was before the death of Attila is not related, but we know that he
died in 453 A.D. He is supposed to have been born about
406, which would have made him forty-seven years old at the time of
his death. It was thirteen years after her marriage to Attila when
Chriemhild accomplished her revenge. Supposing that Attila's death
took place not less than a year later, that would fix the date of
the marriage at 439, or when this busy warrior was thirty-three and
perhaps ready to rest, and that of the revenge at 452. Therefore,
as the "Nibelungen Lied" tells us that the death of Siegfried took
place twenty-six years before the accomplishment of the revenge, we
may suppose that the hero expired in 426. At any rate, the date of
his death must have been in the early part of the fifth century.
And equally, therefore, much of the supernatural paraphernalia of
"Götterdämmerung" belongs to the store of fable which has come
down from that period. If one is curious to establish dates for
the earlier dramas he must first discover how long Siegfried and
Brünnhilde remained together on the Valkyrs' Hill after the sleeping
beauty was awakened by the young hero. The date of "Die Walküre"
would be some twenty or twenty-two years earlier, for in the last
scene of that work we learn that Sieglinde is to become his mother.
As for "Das Rheingold," that must be left to conjecture entirely.
From the _Heldenbuch_ the next step in the German versions of the
legend carries us to the "Nibelungen Lied." Here, as I have noted,
we find Chriemhild as the sister of Gunther. Siegfried has heard
of her beauty and determines to win her as his bride. But all his
efforts are in vain. Meanwhile, to the Court news comes of the
beautiful Brunhild, Queen of Isenland, a woman of matchless courage
and strength. Every suitor for her hand must abide three combats with
her, and if vanquished is put to death. Gunther decides to try to
win her, and Siegfried accompanies him on his expedition, with the
understanding that if they succeed he is to have Chriemhild to wife.
Arriving at the Court of Brunhild, Siegfried, in order to increase
respect for the standing of Gunther, poses as his friend's vassal.
The combats take place, and Siegfried, making himself invisible by
the aid of the magic cap which he obtained from the dwarfs, assists
Gunther to conquer the Queen.
Gunther weds Brunhild and Siegfried marries Gutrune, but the
proud Queen of Isenland does not relish the idea of having for a
sister-in-law the wife of a vassal. Gunther tells her that Siegfried
is a Prince in his own country, but she disbelieves her spouse, and
to punish him for his falsehood denies him her embraces, binds him
with her magic girdle, and hangs him on a nail. Siegfried, having
pity on Gunther, promises to deprive Brunhild of the girdle and make
her a wife in fact as well as in name. So on the following night,
disguised by the Tarnkappe, he takes Gunther's place, embraces the
unwilling Brunhild, and carries off her magic girdle and her ring.
Gutrune misses Siegfried from the chamber, and in the end he is
compelled to explain to her. He foolishly gives her the girdle and
the ring. The two women subsequently come to hot words on a question
of precedence in entering a church (like Elsa and Ortrud), and
Chriemhild in her anger charges Brunhild with her relations with
Siegfried, producing the ring as evidence. Then Brunhild, discovering
the deception of the Tarnkappe, vows vengeance, in the attainment of
which Hagen aids her. Having induced Chriemhild to disclose to him
the mortal spot on Siegfried's body, he drives a spear into it and
slays him. It is to secure revenge for this murder that Chriemhild
marries Attila.
This is a very brief and imperfect outline of the mighty epic of
mediæval Germany. It breathes the spirit of mediævalism, and it
contains none of the mythological features which appear in the
beautiful Scandinavian version of the story of Siegfried. Yet it
has certain incidents employed by Wagner in the dramas, especially
in "Götterdämmerung." The use of the Tarnhelm, the substitution of
Siegfried for Gunther in the wedding chamber, the discovery of the
deception through the recognition of the ring by Brünnhilde, and the
slaying of Siegfried by Hagen's spear-thrust in the back--all appear
in the drama in most significant forms.
It is to the Norse forms of the legend, however, that we must turn
for the earlier parts of Wagner's story and for the most significant
features of the undercurrent of ethical thought. This version in its
oldest form is found in the Eddas, some of which are undoubtedly of
great antiquity. Yet in these poems we meet with the historic name
of Attila. No doubt many deeds performed by earlier and forgotten
heroes were attributed to this wonder-worker of the early Middle
Ages, and in this way he became a sort of composite figure, and thus
was thrust into the later versions of the Eddaic tales. All the other
personages in the story are mythical. As Mr. Sparling notes in his
introduction to the translation of the Volsunga Saga made by William
Morris and Eirikr Magnusson,[39] only fragments of the Eddaic poems
still exist, but "ere they perished there arose from them a saga,"
that of the race of Volsungs.
[Footnote 39: London, Walter Scott, 1888.]
How old the original Eddaic stories are can only be conjectured.
When the Scando-Gothic races overran Europe they carried at least
the germs of these stories with them, but no man knows where they
got them. But it is certain that the northern versions of the
Nibelung tales, as known to us now, must have originated in the
same legends as the "Nibelungen Lied." It was not until the middle
of the seventeenth century that the collection of the rhymed Eddas
made by Saemund the Wise was discovered, and the prose Eddas of
Snorre Sturleson (born 1178, died 1224) were written a century
later than these. For Saemund the Wise was born in 1056 and died in
1131, and therefore the date of his collection of the rhymed Eddas
is not much earlier than that of the "Nibelungen Lied." Both the
Eddas and the Lied were widely diverging branches of an old trunk,
and that accounts in a measure for both their resemblances and
their differences. The southern version is more adulterated with
inexact history, while the northern embodies more of the fundamental
religious mythology of the people.
Far away in the snowy fastnesses of Iceland were preserved the
ancient stories of the hero Sigurd and the heroine Brünnhilde. Even
to this day these stories are sung or told by the secluded people of
the Faroe Islands. Whence did they procure them? From the scattering
of races, which, begun according to religious history at the end
of the flood, continued through the Dark Ages. So impressed upon
the imaginations of the wanderers were these old tales that they
connected historical personages with the actors in them, not only,
as we have seen, by attributing fabulous deeds to real beings, but
by tracing the descent of actual persons from those of mythical
nature. For example, the first King of Dublin was Olaf the White,
and, according to tradition, he was the son of Ingiald, son of
Thora, daughter of "Sigurd Snake-in-the-Eye," son of Ragnar Lodbrok
by Aslaug, daughter of Sigurd by Brünnhilde. And the widow of Olaf
was one of the settlers of Iceland. It was in the ninth century that
Harold Fairhair determined to conquer all Norway. He fought also
in the British Isles, and after a long and bloody struggle made
himself master of Ireland as well as of the northern coasts. Many of
the vanquished, including Olaf's widow, took refuge in the western
islands, and with them went the legends, which had come up from the
Rhine valley, and which, safely buried in the fastnesses of Iceland
and the Faroes, grew into the sagas known to us as the Elder Eddas.
"There also shall we escape the troubling of kings and scoundrels,"
says the Vatsdoelsaga. In their security they made their wondrous
songs.
It was in 1643 that Brynjolf Sveinsson, Bishop of Skalholt,
discovered the manuscripts of Saemund the Wise, and he christened
them the "Edda Saemundar hinns froda," or "Edda of Saemund the
Wise." The term "Edda," which is Icelandic for "grandmother," had
been applied already to the prose tales of Sturleson, though the
latter are of later origin than the former. The two works are
frequently distinguished as the Elder and the Younger Edda. The
Elder is often called the Poetic Edda, because it consists chiefly
of songs, while the Younger is often named the Prose Edda. The
first part of the Elder Edda gives the mythology of the North,
while the lays of the heroes are found in its second part. One of
the translators of the Prose Edda has described it as a sort of
commentary on the Poetic Edda.[40]
[Footnote 40: For the substance of the Elder Edda consult "Asgard and
the Gods," by Wägner & McDowall; London, Swan, Sonnenschein, Le Bas &
Lowrey, 1886. For the Prose Edda, see "The Younger Edda," translated
by R.B. Anderson, Chicago; Scott, Foresman & Co., 1897.]
The poems which contain the story of Sigurd and Brünnhilde are
a portion of the second part of the Elder Edda. An important
part, recounting the story of Sigurd's life from his meeting with
Brünnhilde to his death, has been lost, and for that part of the
tale we are compelled to go to the Prose Edda and the Volsunga Saga.
In the second part of his Younger Edda, Snorre Sturleson rehearsed
briefly in simple prose the story of Sigurd the Volsung, which in
the Elder Edda ran through several poems, forming in their natural
connection an epic of great power. As one of the historians of Norse
literature says:
"The sad and absorbing story here narrated was wonderfully popular
throughout the ancient Scandinavian and Teutonic world, and it
is impossible to say for how many centuries these great tragic
ballads had agitated the hearts of the warlike races of the North.
It is clear that Sigurd and Brynhilda, with all their beauty, noble
endowment, and sorrowful history, were real personages, who had taken
powerful hold on the popular affections in the most ancient times,
and had come down from age to age, receiving fresh incarnations and
embellishments from the popular Scalds."
It is possible that this is true, but the original history of the
personages is quite lost. The story told in the "Skaldskaparmal," the
second part of the Younger Edda, is a rehearsal of the contents of
the "Short Lay of Sigurd," "The Lay of Fafner," and one or two others
in the Elder Edda bearing on the Volsung tale. Wagner has utilised
certain portions of these original lays, especially that of Fafner.
The words of the Forest Bird to Siegfried come very close to those of
the Eagles, who sang to Sigurd in "The Lay of Fafner":
"There lies Regin,[41]
Contemplating
How to deceive the man
Who trusts him:
Thinks in his wrath
Of false accusations.
The evil smith plots
Revenge 'gainst the brother."
[Footnote 41: Mime.]
Compare this passage with the words of the Forest Bird in Act II. of
"Siegfried":
"O trust not in Mime,
The treacherous elf!
Heareth Siegfried but sharply
The shifty hypocrite's words,
What at heart he means
Shall by Mime be shown."
But it was in the Volsunga Saga that Wagner found his material in its
fullest and most available form. None of the editors of the remnants
of Icelandic literature makes it clear, so far as I have been able to
ascertain, whether the Volsunga Saga is older than Snorre's Edda or
not. The facts seem to be that most of the sagas, including this one,
had come into settled form about 900 A.D., and were written
down between 1140 and 1220, or during the lifetime of Snorre. It is
probable, therefore, that Snorre's recapitulation of the Volsung
story was founded as much upon the Volsunga Saga as upon the poems
of the Elder Edda. In all likelihood he knew both, and accepted the
definite outline of the saga as a shape into which to put his recital
of the contents of the lays.
The value of the Volsunga Saga in relation to the Nibelung tale lies
in the fact that its compiler was acquainted with some of the lays
of the Elder Edda, now lost, and that he recounted their incidents
for us, and that it supplied Wagner with the principal materials
for three out of four of the "Ring" dramas. The origin of this saga
is not known, but may easily be surmised. The Norse sagaman was a
luxury of every Court, as were the Norman minstrel and the Saxon
gleeman, and it was frequently his office to glorify his sovereign in
song by connecting him with the marvellous heroes of ancient fable.
Students of mediæval epics know that it was common for their makers
to seek thus to laud their patrons. An interesting instance of this
is the original French story of the Holy Grail, in which an attempt
is made by Kiot of Provence to show that the sacred vessel was first
consigned to the care of Titurel, a mythical Prince of the Anjou
Dynasty. The Volsunga Saga appears to have been arranged largely for
the purpose of glorifying the children of Olaf.
As a corollary to the chief saga there may be mentioned the Thidrek
(Dietrich) Saga, which includes the Niflunga Saga, and was, as
its writer states, made from the German stories. This saga agrees
in some parts with the poems of Eddaic origin, and in others with
the "Nibelungen Lied." There is also the Nornagest Saga, in which
Nornagest (the Guest of the Norns) tells how he witnessed some of
Sigurd's deeds and his death. But the fundamental saga is that which
tells the story of the Volsung race.
The story of the Volsunga Saga is too long to be repeated in full
in this volume, but an outline of its principal incidents must be
given. The genealogy of the Volsung race begins with Odin, whose son
was Sigi, who begat Rerir, the father of Volsung, a mighty king. In
the midst of Volsung's palace, with its branches piercing the roof,
stood the great tree called the Branstock. Volsung had ten sons and
a daughter, the latter born a twin with the eldest son. Their names
were Sigmund and Signy. King Siggeir of Gothland wedded Signy, and
at the feast there came into the hall an old, one-eyed man, wrapped
in a robe, and he struck a sword into the Branstock so that no man
save Sigmund could draw it forth. Siggeir was jealous and when he
had returned to his own land with his bride he invited Volsung and
his sons on a visit. When they had come, he fell upon them and
slew Volsung and set his sons in a wood to be devoured by wolves.
Sigmund escaped and dwelt in the wood. Signy, desiring to avenge the
slaughter of her kin, sent her sons to Sigmund to be tested as to
their fitness for the task. But he, finding them unfit, slew them.
Then Signy put a witch to sleep with her husband and in disguise went
to Sigmund's house and asked for shelter. Sigmund saw she was fair
and he kept her three nights. Then she went to her home. And she bore
another son, whom she called Sinfjotli. And when he was grown she
sent him to his father, Sigmund.
In time, Sigmund and Sinfjotli slew Siggeir, and Signy, having
revealed the fact that Sinfjotli was a full-blooded Volsung, died
with her husband. Sigmund now married Borghild, who hated Sinfjotli
and poisoned him. Sigmund divorced her and married again, his second
wife being Hjordis, who had rejected Hunding, the son of Lygni.
Hunding came with his followers and fought Sigmund, whose sword was
broken in the battle by the spear of an old, one-eyed man, wrapped
in a mantle. Dying, Sigmund gave the pieces of the broken sword
to Hjordis to keep for her son, who was to be the greatest of the
Volsungs. Hjordis went to the Court of the King of Denmark and bore
the son, who was called Sigurd. Alf, the son of the Danish King,
wedded Hjordis, and Sigurd grew up at the Court. His foster-father
and instructor was Regin, a famous smith, a man of wisdom. Regin saw
that Sigurd would be a hero, and hoped to make use of him. Sigurd
was sent to the woods to choose himself a horse, and on the way he
met an old man with one eye, who bade him drive the horses into the
water. One swam across the river and that one the old man told Sigurd
to choose. This horse's name was Grani, and it was of the strain of
Odin's stable. Now Regin told Sigurd of a dragon, Fafnir, which lay
guarding a mighty store of gold, and he urged Sigurd to slay this
dragon and get the hoard. And Regin told Sigurd the story of the gold.
One Hreidmar had three sons--Fafnir, Otter, and Regin. Otter was so
called because he was wont to take the form of an otter and go into
the lake called Andvari's Lake to catch fish. One day Odin, Hönir,
and Loki, three of the gods, came to the lake, and Loki threw a
stone at the otter and slew it. They took off the skin and went to
the house of Hreidmar, who recognised the skin and bade them pay
him a ransom of so much gold as should cover the skin as it stood
upright. Now Loki knew that Andvari had a great store of gold, and,
going back to the lake, he caught Andvari, who was swimming in the
guise of a pike, and refused to release him unless he gave up all his
gold and also the ring by whose magic power the gold was obtained.
And in his wrath Andvari cursed the gold and the ring and declared
that they should be the bane of every man who should thereafter own
them. Loki and the gods strove to cover the otter skin with the gold,
but Hreidmar still saw one muzzle-hair of the otter, and they were
obliged to add also the ring to hide this. Then Loki said to Hreidmar:
"Thou and thy son
Are naught fated to thrive,
The bane it shall be of you both."
"Thereafter," continued Regin, "Fafnir slew his father and murdered
him, nor got I aught of the treasure, and so evil he grew that he
fell to lying abroad and begrudged any share in the wealth to any
man, and so became the worst of all worms, and ever now lies brooding
upon that treasure." Sigurd bade Regin make him a sword with which
to slay the dragon, but every one which the smith made the youth
broke across the anvil. Then Sigurd bade him weld the shards of the
sword Gram, which had belonged to Sigmund. And when these were welded
Sigurd smote the anvil with the new blade and clove it in twain.
Then Sigurd went to fight the sons of Hunding and slew them to avenge
his father's death. Next he went in accordance with his promise to
Regin and slew Fafnir, the dragon. And Fafnir told him that the
treasure which he would gain would be his bane. At the desire of
Regin he roasted the dragon's heart, and in preparing it he wet his
finger with the blood and cleansed it with his tongue. Immediately
he understood the language of the birds and heard the woodpeckers
chattering to the effect that he should slay the treacherous Regin,
who desired his death, should secure the gold for himself and ride to
Hindfell, where slept Brynhild, for there he would get great wisdom.
Sigurd slew Regin and rode off in search of Brynhild, who lay in a
castle on a mountain surrounded by fire. Sigurd rode to her through
the fire. He took off her helm and cut the byrny (breast-plate) from
her with his sword. And she awoke and asked the name of her awakener.
And when she had learned it she sang:
"Long have I slept
And slumbered long,
Many and long are the woes of mankind.
By the might of Odin
Must I abide helpless
To shake from off me the spells of slumber.
"Hail to the day come back!
Hail, sons of the daylight!
Hail to thee, night, and thy daughter!
Look with kind eyes adown
On us sitting here lonely
And give unto us the gain that we long for."
She told Sigurd how she had struck down in battle Helm Gunnar, whom
Odin had selected to be victorious. "And Odin, in vengeance for
that deed, stuck the sleep-thorn into me and said I should never
again have the victory, but should be given away in marriage; but
thereagainst I vowed a vow that never would I wed one who knew the
name of fear." Then she taught him all her runes, and they two
plighted their troth. He went his way, but they met again and renewed
their vows and he gave her a ring, the ring of Andvari. Before he
departed again she prophesied that he would wed Gudrun, the daughter
of King Giuki.
Giuki ruled south of the Rhine. He had three sons, Gunnar (Gunther),
Högni (Hagen) and Guttorm, and one daughter, Gudrun. His wife was
Grimhild, skilled in magic arts. Sigurd went to their court and
stayed five seasons, and Grimhild perceived how dearly Sigurd loved
Brynhild, for he spoke much of her, and she also saw that he was a
goodly man and she wished to have him wed Gudrun. So she mixed him
a drink which caused him to forget Brynhild and he began to love
Gudrun. He married her and swore the oath of brotherhood with Gunnar
and Högni. Brynhild was well known to all these persons, and one day
Grimhild, seeing that Gunnar was still unwed, urged him to go to
court Brynhild, and take Sigurd with him. Gunnar's horse, however,
would not go through the fire. Then he mounted Grani, but he would
not stir. So he and Sigurd changed shapes after a manner taught
them by Grimhild, and Sigurd in the guise of Gunnar rode through
the flames and, reminding Brynhild that she had sworn to wed no one
except him who pierced the fire, claimed her as his bride, and she,
being bound by the oath, yielded. He took the ring of Andvari and
her girdle from her, and rode away. And she went to Gunnar's home
and was married to him. Sigurd gave the ring and the girdle to his
wife Gudrun, and when, some time afterward, the two women fell into
a dispute as to which one's husband was the greater, Gudrun declared
that it was her own husband, Sigurd, who had overcome Brynhild on
the mountain and made her wed Gunnar. And in proof of her words she
showed the ring which Sigurd had taken from Brynhild's finger and
given to her. Brynhild was now eager for revenge, and conspired
with Gunnar and Högni to put Sigurd to death. But they had sworn
brotherhood, and so Guttorm, the youngest brother, who had not sworn,
was chosen; and he slew Sigurd as he lay asleep in his bed. And
Brynhild, aweary of life and the deceits of it, loving no man but
Sigurd, drove a sword into her bosom, and, dying, asked Gunnar to
burn her body with Sigurd's. And it was so done.
Such is the story of the Volsunga Saga as far as it concerns the
incidents of "Der Ring des Nibelungen." In the remaining part of
it is told how Gudrun became the wife of Atli (Attila) and how he
schemed to get possession of the treasure which Sigurd had taken
from Fafnir. But Gunnar and Högni sank the gold in the Rhine, and
thus it disappeared. Atli slew them, but they had not revealed its
hiding-place. I have rehearsed the tale of the Volsungs at more
length than that of the "Nibelungen Lied" because from it Wagner
obtained much more of his material. It now becomes necessary to
review the mythological elements of the dramas taken from the Eddas
and connected by Wagner with this story from mere hints in the
original. When that is done, we shall be ready to survey the dramas
in their entirety and see what use Wagner made of his materials.
The injection into the northern legends of the gods and goddesses
of Scandinavian mythology and of the stories of the sins of Wotan
and the certainty of future destruction of the gods furnished Wagner
with the material for all the early portion of his mighty drama. It
provided him with the ethical basis which makes Wotan the real hero
of a tragedy, to end in the extinction not only of himself and his
associate gods, but of the entire old order of the world, and the
establishment of a new one. This last idea is found in the songs of
the Elder Edda, "Odin's Raven Song," and "Song of the Way Tamer."
These relate to the death of Baldur, the favourite son of Odin,
and are dark with the mystery of an unknown terror. The gods are
disturbed to the depths of their beings, and Odin mounts his steed
and rides to Hell to consult the Wala (Erda) and force from her by
means of runes some information as to the death of his son. Compare
this incident with the first scene of the third act of "Siegfried."
Read the "Havamal," the High Song of Odin, which contains also the
rune song and expounds the entire scheme of Norse ethics. As one of
the commentators on it has well said, "It shows a worldly wisdom,
experience, and sagacity to which modern life can add nothing." The
power of runes is explained in this song. It was by runes that the
wicked princesses of mediæval tales cast spells over their enemies,
that sickness was healed, that flying spears were checked in battle,
that ships conquered the storms of Old Ocean. Yet these runes were
nothing but letters of the alphabet, and their mysterious power was
that of knowledge, denied to many in those dark times and seemingly
magical in its use by the few.
In order that we may understand the true plot of "Der Ring des
Nibelungen," we must briefly examine the mythological basis of it, as
furnished by the Eddas.
According to the Eddas, then, the gods dwelt in Asgard (the place of
the Ases or Aesir), in the castle named Walhalla, the abode of slain
heroes. These gods were not immortal, but were extraordinary beings
gifted with wonderful length of days. But they knew that at some time
they must meet in final conflict their enemies, of which the chief
were the giants. There was also in the far south a mysterious Surtur,
with a flaming sword, and the sons of Muspel, who would join in the
last great assault on the gods. Allied with these giants would be the
horrible children of Loki--the Midgard Snake, which encircled the
earth, and the Fenris Wolf. Loki was the spirit of evil, the god of
fire, yet he was received among the gods because of his wonderful
cunning. The dwarfs dwelt in the subterranean places and were
wondrous makers of weapons for the gods, whom, nevertheless, they
hated.
The master of all the gods was Odin, or Wotan, the lord of war and
the hunt. Upon the field of battle he was followed by his Valkyrs,
Wish-Maidens, choosers of the slain, who consecrated the fallen
heroes with kisses and carried them away to Walhalla. There they ate
of the feast of the blessed and waited to aid Wotan in his final
battle with the powers of evil. The mother of the gods was Fricka,
the wife of Wotan, the Juno of the Norse mythology. Freya was the
goddess of Love, the Venus of the assembly. Iduna, another goddess,
had care of the golden apples of endless youth, which the gods ate.
Thor was the wielder of the mighty hammer, made for him by the dwarfs.
The story runs thus: Fear of the giants led the gods to desire to
have the mighty burg Walhalla surrounded by a strong wall. By the
advice of Loki they swore a great oath to give the goddess Freya and
the sun and the moon to the builder of this wall, provided that he
had it finished before the coming of summer. If the work was then
incomplete, the contract was void. The builder, a Frost-Giant in
disguise, asked only the aid of his horse Svadilfare, and this was
allowed him. The horse carried such vast stones that the work was
almost done several days before the time expired. The gods held a
council, "and asked each other who could have advised to give Freya
in marriage in Jothunheim (the giant's land) or to plunge the air
and the heavens in darkness by taking away the sun and the moon and
giving them to the giant; and all agreed that this must have been
advised by him who gives the most bad counsels,--namely, Loki, the
son of Lauffey,--and they threatened him with a cruel death if he
could not contrive some way of preventing the builder from fulfilling
his part of the bargain."[42] Loki changed himself to the guise of a
mare the next night, and the giant's horse ran after the mare and did
no work. The giant, seeing that he was to lose his bargain, resumed
his natural form, and the gods called upon Thor, who slew him with
his hammer. So, as the "Wala's Prophecy" in the Elder Edda says:
"Broken were oaths,
And words and promises--
All mighty speech
That had passed between them."
[Footnote 42: "The Prose Edda"; translated by R.B. Anderson.]
Thus did sin enter among the gods, and by the breaking of the oath
they burdened themselves with guilt inexpiable. Evil portents came.
Iduna sank with her golden apples of eternal youth to the lower
depths, and could not be recalled. Baldur, the second son of Wotan,
the holy one, into whose presence no impure thing might come, had
terrible dreams. Hel, the goddess of the lower world and of death,
appeared to him and beckoned him to come to her.
Now the last scenes begin. Wotan rides to the realm of shades and
summons the Wala, who foretells the death of Baldur. Fricka begs
all things living or inanimate to swear that they will not injure
Baldur. She overlooks the mistletoe. Loki, noting the omission, makes
a dart of this wood and gives it to Hödur, the blind god. He in sport
shoots the dart at Baldur, who is supposed to be safe from harm, and
the bright one falls dead. The death of Baldur is the foreshadowing
of the end of the gods, and the dissolution of the universe. Sin has
entered among the gods, and they and all else must pay the penalty.
Then comes Ragnarök, the German Götterdämmerung, the twilight of the
gods. The hostile forces assemble for the last great battle. The sons
of Muspel, led by Surtur with the flaming sword, gallop from the
south. The Fenris Wolf and the Midgard Snake are loosed. Wotan leads
the gods in battle. A mighty conflict ensues, and all are slain.
Surtur's flames burn the world, and from the ashes arises a new one,
purified by fire. A youth and a maiden, Lif and Lifthrasir, come out
of the wood of Hoddmimir, where, in the innocence of childhood, they
have slept through all the battle, and they begin the population of
the regenerate world. And the gods themselves, purified by the fire,
reappear and dwell in eternal peace on the plain of Ida, on the site
where once stood the mighty Walhalla.
II.--The Story as Told by Wagner
We may now briefly review the four dramas of "Der Ring," and trace
the connection of their incidents. "Das Rheingold" is the prologue of
the whole, and it is essential that we should thoroughly understand
its story, for it lays down the basis, the motive, of the entire
tragedy. We see the Rhine maidens sporting around the Rhine gold
at the bottom of the river. They are interrupted by the appearance
of Alberich, the Nibelung, who comes up from the nether regions
of Nibelheim, and is at once overcome with the desire to possess
one of the maidens. The rising sun lights up the gold. Alberich's
curiosity in regard to it brings out the story of its nature. Here
enters Wagner's first original and highly poetic touch. Only one
who renounces love can make the ring of gold by which power is to
be obtained. That idea is not found in the old legends. Alberich,
failing in his attempt to win one of the maidens, forswears love and
snatches the gold from its resting-place.
One of the maidens tells us that their father had warned them of a
foe to come from the bottom of the river, but we never learn who
was that father. Nor is any light thrown on the origin of the gold
itself. In the Volsunga Saga we find it in the water, the possession
of Andvari. In the "Nibelungen Lied" Siegfried wins the gold from two
brothers, Schilbung and Nibelung, who brought it forth from a cave.
It had been stored there for centuries. In the Thidrek Saga Siegfried
wins it from a dragon, which he kills. But none of the versions
account for the origin of the gold. All agree that it finally
returned to the Rhine, and that may have been the source of Wagner's
idea. Nor is there any slightest foundation for the proclamation
that only he who forswears love will be able to profit by the gold.
Wagner has simply allowed his fancy to work with the old maxim that
money is the root of all evil, and to represent the gods themselves
as ignorant of the power of gold and innocent of wrong till they
acquired a knowledge of this power. Wotan, in his desire to save
Freia, is ready to yield to the tempter, and his temptation and fall
form the subject of the second scene.
In order to get at the full meaning of these Nibelung dramas we
must keep ever in mind Wagner's intent to follow in a measure the
methods of the Greek dramatists. Æschylus, the greatest of the Greek
tragic writers, excelled in showing the inexorable workings of Fate,
which in the Greek mind corresponded to the modern conception of the
inevitable punishment for sin. Wagner is purely Æschylean in his
method of constructing his tragedy, and he sets forth the inflexible
processes of Fate with the same high purpose. But as he addressed
himself to a modern audience he offered to it that conception of
Fate with which it was familiar, namely, the absolute certainty of
punishment for transgression of the moral law. That he found in
the old Norse legend a foundation for this idea was fortunate. It
simplified his work, yet left room for him to introduce striking
original matter. The rape of the gold by one who has renounced love
is original with Wagner.